


The Hibernian's Escape

by BeaArthurPendragon



Series: Hide You Away Beneath My Shield [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: A suit of armor is involved, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Bondage, Dom/sub, Gags, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Not Beta Read, Orgasm Delay, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Porn with Feelings, What Have I Done
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:26:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24328000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeaArthurPendragon/pseuds/BeaArthurPendragon
Summary: “Your rank gives you leave to approach me unbidden in the marketplace,” Steven murmured sternly, a delicious calm settling over him as he slipped back into the role, even as his heart began to accelerate. “But do not think I have forgotten what you look like on your knees.”When Steven Grant, the most renowned armorer in York, takes a commission for the legendary Silver-Armed Knight, they both know exactly how this will end.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: Hide You Away Beneath My Shield [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1756333
Comments: 24
Kudos: 172





	The Hibernian's Escape

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my dumb roundboi escape. I really didn't think it would get this long, or have this much plot, but there you go. If you haven't read [The Tale of the Silver-Armed Knight](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22023427), you probably want to do that first. (I hope you won't consider your time wasted.)

_“My lord? What—?”_

Steven sat up, sweating and breathless and cold, the old terror lancing through him as sharply as it had the first time it happened. Faint gray light was filtering through the shutters. The bells were ringing six. So he had slept, after all. He stretched and blinked away the sand in his eyes, a headache blooming behind them. He’d slept, perhaps, but he felt even less rested than he had the night before.

He had barred the door behind Sir James after he left yesterday, then pressed his back to the stout, iron-banded wood for good measure, feeling his heart pound hard against the oak. He told people who asked that the iron bands were for security—the gold and vermeil he used to decorate the richest armor could feed a family for a year or more—but in truth it was not thieves he feared most.

He knew, rationally, that there was no reason a 20-year-old Irish warrant for sodomy could follow him here—that, indeed, it was incredibly unlikely anyone back in Drogheda even still cared.

What had possessed him to respond to James’ advance? It would have been so easy to laugh off, to wave away as a joke, but no. He’d had to ask. His loneliness, his lust had compelled him to ask.

_Do you not prefer the hands of lasses?_

_No. And I do not think you do, either._

It was the sly, upturned corners of James’ smile that had done it, Steven thought, and the gaze of bright amusement he’d cast across Steven’s body as he’d replied. 

What was worse was that Steven had accepted his commission in the end. It was foolish enough to live in the same town, to chance an encounter at the market, perhaps, or at Sunday mass. But now he would be working metal to fit the body of a man he had stripped and fondled and impaled, a man whose mouth had grinned against Steven’s own and pleasured Steven’s cock and let forth such delicious, inviting sighs that Steven felt his manhood stir again at the memory of them.

Every piece of armor he crafted would summon his memory of the part it protected—breast, thigh, neck, buttocks, cock, each more precious than the next. With each strike of the hammer Steven would remember the heat of James’ skin beneath his hand, the salt of James’ skin against his tongue.

And in a few short months, just as spring was giving forth, Steven would have to bring his burden to James’ home to fit him, and his memory would be renewed. Would their lust, too, be renewed? Or would time and good sense settle them both, and govern their bodies more wisely?

He did not know, but God help him, he knew which one he wanted. 

_I am slain_ , Steven thought, stripping his tunic off and unlacing his hose and undergarments to free his thickening cock. _This man will end me_.

The pot of honey salve was still where he had left it on the kitchen board that afternoon. He dabbed his fingers into it as he crossed to his bed, his knees weakening with every stride.

He did not so much lie down upon his bed as he collapsed, his limbs giving way beneath the weight of his sudden need, his slippery hand closing eagerly around his needy staff.

And yet as he did, his mind was suddenly yanked away from James toward Drogheda, and Lord Chester’s keep, and dear Arnold, forever 17, a bright ginger Adonis with longbow-honed shoulders carved like marble and dusted everywhere with golden freckles, and a deep, hoarse laugh that you could hear from across the practice yard.

It was Arnold who unlocked his desire to command a man, to shape and extend his pleasure, to reward his trust with a jolt of shattering delight. Steven was still small then—his voice had changed and his beard had come in and his cock had come roaring to life right on schedule, but he was still shorter than the other young men, skinnier than the other young men, and though he was wiry and strong for his size, he still could not always hold his own against them yet. In more reflective moments, he supposed he was simply hungry to achieve within the bedchamber what, so far, had been denied him without. 

For his part, Arnold loved to be used, loved to melt against the heat of Steven’s will, loved to surrender utterly to Steven’s hands. Their play was always joyful and trusting, a delicious release from the strictures of their respective burdens, and they always left the storage room feeling lighter than they had before.

God had given them four months of friendship and pleasure—and yes, no matter what the priests said, he knew it had to be God who had allowed two such peculiar, complementary desires to find one another—

And then one night Arnold did not appear for his appointment, and Lord Chester appeared in his stead, with a bag of gold and a satchel of clothes and food and an order to make his way to Dublin, and thence by ship to England, and thence by road to York, where a smith named Erskine would take him in. He had already sent Arnold to Meath, to serve Lord Ross. Father Pierce would come at dawn for him, and not even Lord Chester could protect Steven if he found him.

Steven did not need to ask from what.

Only the sweet ecstasy of release could quiet Steven’s busy mind, deafen him for a moment to his clamoring longings and worries and griefs. Release brought him back to James, to the strange, noble man who was not afraid of what he wanted, who was not afraid to ask for it, who would not, Steven suspected, be afraid to beg for it, either.

James was not Steven’s first dalliance since coming to England, but he had never indulged so close to home. Foolish to shit where you sleep—Arnold had taught him that—and so he had confined his lust to the roads he traveled when he delivered his commissions, to the inns and taverns he knew to be safe and accommodating, where he could find a good fellow eager to do another man’s bidding, to take Steven’s instruction and then permit Steven to claim him in that most intimate of places, to plant his seed where no seed would ever grow.

His restraint had come easily for a while; he had not dared compromise his second chance with so much glance at another man as long as Mr. Erskine lived, and those long lonely years had taught him how to be patient with his desire after he died.

Yet the older he got, the harder it was to rationalize. He’d passed his 30th summer five or six years ago, he reckoned, and it was a rare man of his station who saw 50. With each passing year, he had less and less to lose.

Steve rose from his bed and drew a shawl over his shoulders as he went to wake the fire. The sun was almost nearly up and he meant to make the most of today’s light to sketch his plans for James’ armor.

It was time to begin.

***

The rest of the winter passed in a haze of heat, steel, and leather. Rather than waste metal on bad designs, he took the unusual extra step of mocking up each piece in rawhide so he could test the use of each component in turn and ensure that he could don it with his right hand only. James had given Steven free rein to devise his solutions—so long as he could reach, he’d said, he could manage.

It was a heavy responsibility, Steven acknowledged, but his mind thrilled at the complexity of the puzzle. He shifted buckles, developed systems of hooks and hinges and straps that would allow him to secure and tighten his rig one-handed, and commissioned a special one-armed padded gambeson of black cotton to wear beneath the armor with latches instead of ties to hold the plates in place.

And so James began to command Steven’s mind the way Steven had commanded James’ body that December afternoon. He began to do things about the shop and his apartment without his left hand, trying to learn how to think like a one-handed man, rooting out difficulties that might not have occurred to him. With every piece he wrought, he cast his mind back to the sight of James undressing himself in Steven’s apartment, to the way he managed the buckles and buttons and straps and laces of his clothing and the hollow steel arm that filled his left sleeve. It was not just for pleasure that he had studied James then, nor was it for pleasure that he recalled it now.

And yet, there was pleasure in it. The heat of the work had long burned away his fear, and in its place a mellow kind of anticipation had taken hold. He loved beating out the curves of James’ body, recalling the grace of his limbs, imagining how they would glide beneath the plates in combat, knowing he was keeping him safe. 

The greatest challenge, as he expected, was the gauntlet. It was a terrible irony that James had both greater need than most to protect his remaining hand and yet much less capacity to arm it. But the gauntlet was the key to the entire enterprise; if he could not put it on, his hand was in mortal danger, and if he could not get it off, he could not remove the rest of his armor after his fight. And Steven did not want him to have to keep using the studded leather glove he’d gotten away with so far—luck always turns eventually, and such a glove would not save him when it did.

Winter gradually melted into a damp, chilly March, which gave way to a soggy, muddy April. But the lengthening days and the warming breeze brought new life to York as the market stalls began to fill out with early spring produce and sacks of freshly-sheared wool began to pile up on the riverfront warehouses for trade at Scarborough and Hull.

Steven was never one to waste time, but even he could not resist tarrying at the stalls, his eyes as hungry as his tongue for fresh new things. He was sick unto death of his Lenten salt fish and porridge and tough, withered kale—he craved fresh lamb and radishes and cucumbers and peas. He wanted fresh butter and cheese and eggs and flaky pies filled with sweet apples. He lingered to take in the bright ribbons and yarns, the polished pewter mugs and plates, the jeweler’s silver and gold adornments gleaming in the newborn sun.

“Pleasant day, isn’t it.”

The voice was soft but unmistakable in his left ear, and though Steven did not dare turn his face, he cast a quick, cautious glance toward the dark presence standing just behind his left shoulder, a single finger brushing up and down the back of Steven’s left wrist.

“Your rank gives you leave to approach me unbidden in the marketplace,” Steven murmured sternly, a delicious calm settling over him as he slipped back into the role, even as his heart began to accelerate. “But do not think I have forgotten what you look like on your knees.”

A soft laugh, no more than an exhale, ghosted across the side of Steven’s neck, raising gooseflesh across his skin and heating his blood to an inconvenient degree. He stood so close that Steven could smell the dried lavender his laundrywoman strewed between his sheets, the rich smoky heat of his sweat, the beeswax he rubbed into the leather of his vest. The faint honey scent radiating from the wax instantly hauled Steven back to that afternoon, to the pot of salve and the pleasures it delivered.

“I have missed the way you speak to me,” James said, the low rumble of his voice vibrating Steven to his core. “I hope we can converse again soon.”

“Patience,” Steven said, suppressing a smile in order to prolong the game. “After Easter, as we agreed.”

James made a disappointed little noise, as the holiday was still three weeks off, and Steven clamped his hand firmly around his in response. “Do not touch yourself in the meanwhile,” he said. “I will know if you have lied.”

“I could never lie to you,” James said. His hand rested passively in Steven’s grasp, but there was laughter along the margins of his voice. Laughter—and something else.

Honesty.

Steven slackened his grip somewhat on James’ hand. “Never do this in public again,” he said, his voice gentle now, but full of warning as he gave the barest nod toward the market folk milling obliviously just a few steps away. “This is not France.”

He felt rather than heard James swallow behind him. “I apologize,” he said sincerely. “I did not fully consider the consequences of my actions.”

“After Easter,” Steven said, releasing his hand. “We will speak.”

James seemed to melt away into the crowd instantly; no sooner did Steven register his departure, he turned to look, but the knight was nowhere to be found. 

***

Steven awoke before sunrise on the appointed day. He took special care with his toilet, bathing his body and washing his hair, donning clean clothes—the new indigo tunic he’d purchased for Easter that flattered his eyes—and trimming his nails and his beard in the glass by the window that caught the first dawn light. He took a light breakfast of bread and cheese, then carried his mug of morning ale downstairs to the shop.

Sir James’ armor glowed on its rack by the fire, waiting to be packed with straw into the box Steven had built the day before. He set his mug aside and reached up to touch the breastplate—not outside but inside. It would never touch James’ skin directly, he knew that—but nevertheless, he liked to think of it lying against his chest, gliding easily over the padded gambeson as he thrust and parried, warmed by the heat of him, his heart pounding and lungs pushing hard against it with exertion, breathing harder and harder—

Steven’s cock twitched, and he took a long sip of ale to douse his desire. No, he shouldn’t waste himself on fantasies now, not when satisfaction was so close at hand. To forestall temptation, he dragged the straw-filled box over to the armor rack and began to pack.

He was not due at Sir James’ until after lunch, however, so he took advantage of the bright morning light to knit a patch of chain mail to repair a portion of Sir Wilfred’s ancient hauberk. He was much too frail to wear it anymore, but if it helped the old man remember Agincourt then what harm was there? When Steven finished the patch, he impulsively dipped a rag in oil and polished it for free.

Repairing mail was meditative work, and he soon lost himself in it; before he knew it, the bells were ringing midday. Steven took a quick lunch of bread, cheese, an apple, and some ham, for a full stomach did not lend itself to afternoon diversions, and then carried the box of armor out to his handcart.

Sir James lived some distance away, in a snug stone house below the Minster and not far from the old Roman wall. Even stripped of his wealth and title, he lived comfortably; the house was in excellent repair and the door, when Steven knocked, was opened by a tidily dressed girl in a clean, flour-dusted apron and blonde plaits wrapped and pinned about her head. Not a daughter, Steven thought, and certainly not a wife. A servant, then—well-fed and not overworked, Steven judged. Unlike so many poor teenagers in this city, she still had a girlishness about her that told Steven she lived among kindness. He liked that.

“A visitor, Sir James,” the girl called into the main hall.

“Let him in, Gwen,” Sir James said, and Steven heard a scrape of wood as the man pushed his chair back from a table. Then, as his footsteps drew closer, he added, “Would you be so kind as to run by Mrs. Parker’s and check to see if my new cloak is ready? We can shift for ourselves in the meanwhile.”

Gwen grinned and bobbed a curtsey and beat a retreat to the back door so quickly Steven could not help but smile as well. James appeared in the doorway just then, and he was smiling, too.

“Gwen enjoys visiting Mrs. Parker’s nephew,” he said, clapping his hand on Steven’s shoulder and gesturing toward the main hall with his steel fist with surprising eloquence. “She will not be back until supper.”

“Hall” was perhaps overstating it—but it was larger than Steven’s shop, with a tapestry-warmed walls, a large fireplace, and glazed windows that fractured the sunlight into rainbows.

“Through here,” James said, overtaking Steven to open a door at the back of the room. The door gave way onto what Steven could only describe as an armory. Racks of swords, daggers, lances and halberds lined the walls—some of them weapons Steven had only heard of, but never seen. Draped over a polished wooden rack in the corner was James’ mail and breastplate—old but well-cared-for, though only one glance told Steven how poorly suited it was to the way James fought now.

“You have quite a collection,” Steven said, gazing appreciatively at a finely engraved Turkish scimitar that glittered as James lit a candle nearby. “Are these for use or for show?”

“Every weapon has its use,” James said, using a low tone of voice that made Steven turn around.

The knight was standing by the fire, his back straight, his right hand clasped submissively over his left, his head ever so slightly tilted down. The angle only enhanced the natural sly little smile at the corners of his mouth. Steve felt the tide of his blood begin to shift direction. How such a neutral pose could communicate such naughtiness, he could not fathom.

“Not yet,” Steven said. “Try the armor on first.”

After a brief pause during which Steven was certain he was debating whether or not to protest, he nodded and moved to the box that Steven had set upon the table in the middle of the room.

Steven met him there, across the table, prized the lid off, and lifted the folded gambeson out to reveal the breastplate nestled in the still-bright straw. James fingered the metal loops stitched at the arming points where the laces normally were and then reached back into the box to lift out the breastplate.

“Your reputation is deserved, sir,” he said softly, turning the breastplate this way and that to catch the light. Steven had chased stars across it to match the ones adorning the steel arm that carried over to the plates that would protect his right arm, too. “This is magnificent. You could be an engraver.”

“Best to make it all look of a piece,” Steven said as he unpacked the rest. “So that in battle you may confuse your opponent.”

“Indeed,” James said. He watched as Steven lay the pieces out on the table, lifting and examining each one in turn. “You have reinvented everything.”

“Not everything,” Steven said modestly. “I will change anything that does not suit your needs for free, of course.”

James smiled and began to remove his tunic, revealing a whisper-thin linen shirt beneath, and the remarkable leather harness that secured his arm to his body.

Steven circled around the table as he did, taking up the gambeson and holding it open so James could slip his arms into it. Steven drew it up over his shoulders, then moved around to James’ front to buckle it closed.

Strange how easily the rhythm of arming a man came back to him, even now. It had been years since he’d done this—normally the men he provided armor for had squires to help them with it—but the old pleasure of it returned easily now, the heightened anticipation of the battle to come, the delicious excitement of approaching danger.

War was nothing like the ballads, Steven knew—it was hard, filthy, painful, awful work, and he never took pleasure in killing. But not even he could deny the thrill of it, too, the way his heart pounded when steel clashed across steel, the exhilaration of blocking the blow and diving in for a strike of his own, the fire that coursed through his body and made his cock stir with that deep, animal need to dominate.

Even now some part of him missed it. He had never felt more alive than he had on the battlefield, and sometimes it shamed him, but not always. Not now.

He took his time with his task, showing James how all of his little inventions worked, inviting him to test the attachments for himself. He took James’ hand in his as he did, guiding his fingers as they worked the latches and the hooks, praising him as he learned.

As James lingered over the latch strapping his cuisse to his thigh, Steven began to suspect that James was learning much more easily than he let on. It did not matter. James was a pleasure to praise.

Finally it was time for the gauntlet. This, Steven did not help him with. He had settled on a modified demi-gauntlet to strap over the top of an ordinary leather glove, but instead of terminating at his knuckles, Steven had devised a hinged shield that would curl all the way to his fingertips. The hinge would allow James the flexibility he needed to adjust his grip—or drop his weapon if he had to—while still protecting his entire hand. To don it, all he had to do was cradle it in his steel arm so he could slip his hand through the straps beneath. The straps were snug enough to hold the gauntlet in place but not so tight that he could not remove his battle-swollen hand afterward.

“Clever,” James said, curling and flexing his hand.

“You should test your grip,” Steven said, holding James’ gaze.

“Then you choose the sword,” James said, and there was that naughty little smile again. Steven laughed and reached forward to unlatch the steel skirt that protected James’ hips and manhood, then unlaced his hose and yanked the waistband down over his cuisses so he could only spread his legs a little. Between his thighs, his staff was beginning to rise.

“What is it you crave?” Steven asked. “Obedience? Humiliation? Pain?”

“Submission,” James said matter-of-factly. “I have had pain and humiliation enough already.”

The last briefly startled Steven out of the game, but only for a moment, for one look at James, still proud and straight, made it quite clear that this was no broken man standing before him. Indeed, for all he had endured before, he was stronger for it now.

“You will tell me if anything I do hurts or disturbs your pleasure in any way,” Steven said firmly. “You will tell me immediately, and I shall stop.”

“I will,” James confirmed.

“In that case, the sword I choose is yours,” Steven said, stepping back and crossing his arms. “If you spill yourself on that armor you will have to clean it with your tongue.” _And then properly_ , he could not help add silently to himself.

James emitted a laughing little sigh and gingerly gathered his cock into his hand, taking care to only touch himself with the soft underpart of his hand, and not to catch or scrape the delicate skin on the gauntlet’s edge. He glanced briefly at Steven to make sure he understood his meaning, and when Steven nodded, he began—cautiously—to stroke himself.

No matter Steve’s warning, there was little risk of James spilling himself, for the armor restricted his movement such that he could not easily adjust his grip or his angle—not without risking a catastrophic premature ending to their encounter. The result was a grip of just enough pressure, just enough cadence to raise him erect and keep him like that, fat with want—and nothing more.

“Not many men would do that,” Steven said. “The risk alone—”

“I am comfortable with risk,” James said, his voice growing hoarse. “I find it…” he glanced up a little and then smiled. “Thrilling.”

“What else do you find thrilling?” Steven asked, then nodded at James’ hand. “Stop.”

James gave an insouciant little whine and let his hand fall to the side, leaving his cock straining upward in search of touch.

“Restraint,” James said. “I do not know how not to fight. I never have. But I want—I need—"

“Respite,” Steven said. “You want a place where it’s safe to surrender.”

“Yes,” James said. His voice was low and quiet, and Steven realized that this must be the first time he had heard his desire articulated aloud.

Steven asked, “Can you put both hands behind your back without pain?”

James nodded and grinned, and showed Steven that he could, however awkwardly. Steven circled around to see how the steel arm lay against James’ back, and was delighted to see that it lay flat. Steven picked up the rope that had bound the armor box and quickly trussed James’ forearms together. He used a dagger from the rack to cut off the extra length and set it aside in case other uses presented themselves.

Now armbound and hobbled by his undergarments, James’ breath began to rise. With his cock out and no way to catch himself if he lost his balance, Steven knew he must be feeling very vulnerable indeed.

He took a wooden candlestick from the table and began to lightly tap on James’ breastplate. James would barely feel it, but he would hear and see it, and that was the point, for he would be yearning for touch right now, and the denial of it, Steven knew, would be sweet torture.

He trailed the candlestick across the breastplate, up and down like whitewasher with his rag, letting the soft hiss of the wood scraping across etched steel fill the room.

“Harder,” James said, chewing his lower lip in search for sensation.

Steven smiled and dragged the candlestick all the way to the lowest point of the breastplate, just barely grazing the tip of James’ straining cock. “No.”

James groaned and began to lick his lips as he chewed on them, and Steven looked at the candlestick. It was a fine design, polished and lacquered smooth, narrow in body with a flared base and a flared socket, with a single round node in the middle that was just the perfect size to—

“Open your mouth,” Steven said, and when James did, Steven neatly fitted the candlestick sideways between his teeth.

James gave a muffled laugh of delight.

“Are you all right?” Steven asked, and when James nodded, continued, “I can bind it into place or you may drop it whenever you wish. The choice is yours.”

James managed to twist his mouth into a big grin and made a noise that sounded like, “Bind.”

“Bind?” Steven confirmed, and James nodded. “Very well. If it becomes too much, cough, and I shall release it. Can you remember that?”

James produced a testing cough, then nodded.

Steven cut off another length of rope and looped it around the ends of the candlestick, then tied it behind James’ head. He left some give so he could adjust his bite a little and enjoy the use of the bit longer. Then, while was behind James’ back, he took a stem of straw from the box and used it to tickle his ear, the back of his neck, the other ear, and back again, and was gratified with a groan of pleasure that made Steven’s cock stir with interest.

Steven came round to face James again. Keeping his eyes fixed on James’, he slowly unbuckled his belt and undressed, torturing him with the sight of his body. Then he gathered into his hand and began to stroke with one hand while he idly thumbed a nipple with the other. Slowly—he did not mean to carry himself off yet—but enough to make James see what he could not have, what he could not touch or feel.

James whined and wriggled against his restraints, rolling his hips as best he could to drive his own cock through the air toward him.

“You poor thing,” Steven said, biting his lip invitingly and letting his breath hitch dramatically. “It must be so hard to watch this.”

James nodded, his eyes rolling up and away to avoid the tempting sight.

“We shall have to remedy that,” Steven said, ostentatiously bending over to retrieve one of his legs of hose. “Perhaps I should not make you look at anything at all.”

James made a happy groaning noise and nodded. Steven bound the hose around his eyes, tantalizing him with little breaths against his neck as he did, then quietly kneeled and began to remove the armor from James’ feet, for it had served its purpose, and now would only get in the way. Besides, the gag was beginning to make James drool, and Steven wanted him to be able to feel the drip of it against his chest.

James moaned when he realized what was happening. He shifted his weight and flexed his feet as Steven released him from his burden, his breath catching in a funny little dance as Steven reached up to his thighs to unbuckle his cuisses while deftly avoiding the touch of either his balls or cock.

Then Steven quickly unbound James arms and eased them back into their natural position for a while. James sighed with pleasure and wiggled his fingers, and Steven knew he had correctly judged it time for a pause. He quickly removed the rest of the plate, unbuckled the gambeson and slid it off his shoulders, then took his hand and helped him step out of the hose and undergarments that had puddled at his ankles in the meantime.

Then James reached forward until he found Steve’s shoulder, spoke a few words Steven did not understand, pointed to his arm, then touched the buckle of the harness that held his arm in place over his shirt.

“You wish to remove it?” Steven asked, and James nodded. Steven pushed up the blindfold and loosened the bit so it hung about his neck.

“Hold my arm,” James repeated, clearly now. “While I unbuckle it.”

Steven held the arm to support it while James made quick work of the buckles and then gently loosened it from the stump. The arm, as it came free, was heavier than Steven expected. No wonder his shoulder was so strong. Steven glanced around the room, then carried the arm to a bench near the window, well out of the way of their games.

The business of the arm concluded, Steven returned to find James standing obediently in his shirt with his arm to his side, his cock as ready as ever, his breath, if Steven was not mistaken, coming more rapidly than it had before. This was no interruption for him, Steven realized, but as natural part of love as undressing—instead of distracting him from the pleasure to come, it primed him for it.

“How shall we continue?” Steven asked. “Shall we resume where we left off?”

A soft, dreamy smile crossed James’ face. “Yes, please.”

Steven pointed to a spot on the floor. “Tell me how much you want it.”

James knelt, his right arm instinctively twisting behind his back as it had been before, and lowered his gaze. “I want it more than anything else in the world. Please.”

“Tell me what you want. Do you want me to darken your sight again? Silence you? Bind you tight?”

James nodded fiercely. “Please,” he said, his voice a low rasp. “All of it. Please.” He licked his lips again, and added another “please.”

“Very well,” Steven said, tugging the hose down over James’ eyes. “Let us continue.”

He replaced the candlestick in James’ offering mouth, then lifted James’ arm so he could remove his shirt. He left him there, kneeling and naked, while he considered how best to bind his arm. Finally he took the second leg of hose, used it to bind James’ belt from wrist to elbow, and then buckled the belt round his waist so his arm was pulled flat against the small of his back.

“Do you like this?” Steven asked, and James nodded. “Then tell me how much you like it.”

James began to speak garbled professions of desire, his lips and tongue working awkwardly around the candlestick. Saliva bubbled at the corners of his mouth the more he spoke, until finally the droplets swelled so heavily they began to drip down his chin and land on his chest.

James made a wry laughing noise, which only produced more saliva, which only painted his chin and chest further.

“You’re making a proper mess of yourself,” Steven observed, and James grinned behind the gag. “Stand up,” Steven said. “I will help you.”

But James shook his head and, with that impossible grace of his, stood on his own without so much as breaking his balance.

“Did you think I would reward that disobedience?” Steven asked mildly. “Must I restrain you further?”

James managed a tortured “yes,” knocking another gout of saliva free.

“Stand there,” Steven said, looking about the room for a suitable prop. “Legs apart.”

James complied. Steven gave his cock an approving caress, just enough to make him jump with pleasure and then groan when Steven withdrew his hand. “Stay there,” he instructed.

He found what he needed on a sword rack near the fireplace: The scabbard of a longsword, about three feet in length and reinforced with steel. He cut off two lengths of rope and used them to bind James’ ankles to either end of the scabbard, holding them apart.

James was tonguing the gag now, drooling so freely that his chin glistened with damp. When Steven patted his ankle to signal that he was done, James sighed with pleasure as he tested his binds.

“Now I have you,” Steven said, lightly trailing a single fingertip down James’ spine, bypassing the bound arm and stopping right at the tender top of his cleft. After a moment’s lingering, he began to tease the skin ever so lightly with a blunt fingernail, then, dragging his fingertips lightly across James’ skin, reached between his legs and gave his balls a gentle, massaging squeeze, eliciting a jerk of the hips and a gulping, vocal gasp that made Steven’s own cock begin to thicken in response.

Steven moved around to James’ front and gently ran the flat of his hand up from his balls, along the underside of his cock—another gasp and then a groan—and then up his belly to his chest, where he took one of James’ nipples between his thumb and forefinger and began to massage it.

He bent toward James next and took the second nipple between his teeth, feeling it stiffen beneath his tongue. A drop of saliva spattered Steven’s cheek, unlocking a fresh wave of desire. He loved this, loved it when a man chose to give himself to him thus, to unburden himself of decision and allow Steven to teach him how many ways a body could experience delight. The mess mattered not, for it signified the surrender that unlocked the door to this new world of pleasure.

He took that nipple into his other hand so he could straighten up and attend to James’ neck, nubbled with gooseflesh and longing to be touched. Steven stepped closer, allowing his cock to brush against James’, and began to apply soft, sucking kisses to the sensitive skin from collarbone to earlobe, unable to keep himself from grinning at how furiously James was mouthing the bit.

He was moaning now, too, and trying to rut against Steven, but Steven was not standing quite close enough for him to gain satisfactory purchase against his body. He was wet now—Steven noticed—he would not last much longer. Steven left off for a moment, leaving James whimpering and thrusting at the empty air, while he retrieved an item from his purse: the pot of honey salve. It was time to release James at last, he decided, and himself as well, for James would be in no condition to tend to him after this.

He slicked up his right hand and then released James from his gag. James surged forward, nearly crashing into Steven’s cheek, but Steven caught him with his clean left hand and guided him toward his mouth as he gathered both James’ cock and his own into his prepared hand. Then he slid his left hand around James’ back to support him and began to stroke.

James kissed him hungrily, grunting and thrusting his tongue deep in Steven’s mouth and dragging it along Steven’s teeth in search of friction, biting his lips and sucking Steven’s tongue in return. He was starving for this.

Steven felt his own knees weaken as he stroked, James’ need feeding his own so fully that he could no longer control his voice—what remained of his will was focused solely on James’ safety.

He brought them both off at the same time—Steven had always been skilled at guiding a partner into matching cadence—and then gathered James into his arms as he collapsed forward.

“Good man,” Steven said, pulling the hose away from James’ eyes and gently kissing a sweat-damp temple. “You did so well today.”

James gave a tired little laugh and sighed. They stood there for a little while, leaning against one another, until James began to return to himself. Steven helped him to a nearby chair, where he quickly undid his bindings and helped him ease his arm back forward, rubbing the shoulder as he did.

“Rest a moment,” Steven said, kissing James’ forehead. There was an embroidered horse blanket of fine merino hanging folded on a stand in the corner, and Steven brought this over to drape across James’ shoulders. “I will fetch some wine and some food.”

He quickly, if regretfully, dressed himself just in case young Gwen had returned, and found his way into the kitchen. He found a basket and gathered a jug of wine, two cups, a plate, and some cheese and bread.

When he returned, he found that James had dragged his chair near the fire and stoked the logs, for April afternoons were still chilly in this part of the world, and any sun that might have warmed the space had moved on hours ago. He smiled and reached for a cup of wine gratefully, though he waited until Steven had poured his own to drink.

“I find our conversations most stimulating,” James said softly, his voice still roughened from its exertions. But his eyes were bright and smiling, and Steven felt a moment’s relief at the sight. It was a great responsibility to take a man’s body into one’s hands the way they had done.

“As do I,” Steven said. “Was it—as you wished?”

James nodded. “Very much so.”

“Someday you shall tell me all the things you want,” Steven said impulsively, his voice making the decision before his mind had fully formed it. “And then we will do them all.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I'm a slut for your comments. :D 
> 
> Hang out with me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/PendragonBea) if you like!


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